


Hold My Heart in Two

by ViaLethe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cousin Incest, Future Fic, Multi, Porn Battle, Porn With Plot, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViaLethe/pseuds/ViaLethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can't get used to being back at Winterfell, where everything is the same and yet not at all, where Jon stares into the flames and Sansa stares at the scars on the walls, and nobody really feels at home anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold My Heart in Two

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle XIV, off the prompt words warmth, siblings, fire, kill.
> 
> Set several years in the future, when the wars are mostly over, in a world where R+L=J and no one ever found out Bran and Rickon lived. Vague spoilers for all books.

**_Hold My Heart in Two_ **

She can't get used to being here again.

It's all the same, Winterfell rebuilt, and yet it's not at all. There's too much missing – no Father, no Mother, no Robb or Bran or Rickon – and too much new, like the scorch marks that remain on some of the stones. It makes her twitchy, though Arya doesn't show it.

Sansa does. Arya supposes she can't really help it; Sansa's told them about her time at King's Landing and in the Vale, about Joffrey and Petyr Baelish and the Moon Door and plenty more besides. Still, it annoys Arya every time she sees her sister flinch at a man's raised voice, or lose herself staring at the scars on their walls.

“She's a Queen now,” she says to Jon late one night, sitting in the windowsill and enjoying the sharp chill of the northern air seeping in through the cracks in the shutters and blowing over her naked skin. “She should act like one.”

Jon just shrugs from her bed, staring into the fire like he sees something looking back from the flames; that annoys Arya too, the way he won't share the secrets she can tell he's keeping. 

“She does her best, I think,” he says, and his voice is still low and warm as she remembered it for all those years, one piece of home that hasn't changed. “There's more than one way to lead men.”

Arya suspects Sansa knows more ways to lead men than Jon would care to think on; she's watched Sansa flirt with her lords when need be, and Arya has seen that look often enough on girls in Braavos, the look of fear and disgust flashing across their faces for just a second before the mask slides into place, and a girl delivers what a man wants.

Outside, one wolf howls, then another, their calls rising up and joining in the night, and Arya shivers, waiting for a third call that won't ever come.

***

Sansa joins them the next night, wrapped in furs over her woolen robe. “I can't ever seem to get warm now,” she says, and Jon doesn't say anything, only puts more wood on the fire. Arya pours wine for them all, trying to ignore the way he pauses to stare into the flames, trying to ignore the way the light flares over Sansa, bringing out the bright copper in her hair, trying to ignore the flushing warmth growing inside her. It's only the wine, she tells herself. Nothing more.

“I heard the wolves last night,” Sansa says from where she's seated herself at the foot of Jon's chair, near the fire but still shivering even in her furs, draining her wineglass more quickly than their old Septa would have considered strictly ladylike.

“I'm sorry if they bother you, Your Grace,” Jon says. “We can send them out further than the godswood if-”

There's a protest on the tip of Arya's tongue, loud and strident, but for once, her sister's protests match her own.

“No!” Sansa says quickly, placing a hand on Jon's knee. “I don't mind it, truly. I've missed hearing them for so long now. And really Jon, how many times must I tell you not to call me that? The two of you are impossible! I can't get Arya to refer to me properly even in public, while you remain utterly formal even at the most familiar of times.” The old Sansa would have looked down her nose as she said it, even from her position on the floor, but this new Sansa smiles at her instead, and Arya rolls her eyes and gulps down her wine, honestly not certain which she'd have preferred.

“It's a sister's right to be familiar,” Jon says, stretching out his legs towards the fire, though the motion doesn't dislodge Sansa's hand. “I'm not a Stark.”

It's the small details that matter, and Arya watches closely enough to notice Sansa's fingers tighten on his leg. “It is the right of a cousin as well,” Sansa says quietly, and that's enough to make Arya look away, the reminder of yet another thing that's different, another brother lost, even if it has gained her something different in the end, all the lines between them blurred. “And it would be the right of a King. Many still wish that we would marry.” 

Her sister's words hit Arya like a fist to the gut, even as she knows the truth of them; it would stop the grumbling about Robb's will, stop the mutters about a lady ruling alone being a danger for the North. And she knows Sansa does not intend to wound with her words, doesn't know the truth of things between her and Jon now; their rule is still now, as it ever was, ' _Don't tell Sansa_ '. Still, everything sits heavy and churning in her stomach until Jon speaks again. 

“I took an oath, little sister. To take no wife, father no children. To hold no crown.”

Though it's Sansa's hair he strokes as he speaks, it's Arya he locks eyes with.

***

“You can't call me that anymore,” she'd said, the first night they'd fallen into this twisted new way of being, the first time they'd drunk too much and she'd confessed how often she'd thought of him for all the years in between, when his fingers in her hair suddenly turned from playful to urgent, and everything had changed in an instant.

“What did I call you?” he'd asked, and she'd wondered if she looked as confused and shocked as he did, to find themselves naked together in bed.

“Little sister. It makes it all wrong, we're not Lannisters or Targaryens.” She'd cursed herself for saying it as soon as it was out of her mouth, but he'd just watched her for a long moment, until she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, and they burst into laughter together, just like always.

Maybe it was a perverse joke, but still, Arya thought it better to laugh at that than not laugh at all.

***

Hours later and they've gone through two bottles of wine, and even Sansa has cast off her furs, the neck of her robe fallen open. Arya has long since rolled up her shirtsleeves and breeches, and she can see the sheen of Jon's skin at his collarbone and along his throat; she knows he craves the chill of the North just as she does.

When their wolves begin to howl once again, she feels it, just for a flash – the sense of fur, and paws padding through the crisp snow, the sharp smell of ice overlaying everything, even the scent of her brother at her side, gleaming white as the snow in the moonlight. Then she's back in the stifling interior of Winterfell, eyes meeting Jon's over her sister's head.

“I wonder if they miss their sister,” Sansa says. Arya had thought her asleep, her head resting against Jon's thigh, but her sister's eyes are open now, their gaze sharper than Arya thinks her own must be.

“They do,” she says, and though she meant it to come out in a normal tone of voice, it gets caught up in her throat somehow, and comes out cracked, broken. “They always have.”

Sansa doesn't say anything more, doesn't even look at her, just reaches her hand out and gropes about until she finds Arya's, squeezing it tight for a moment before pulling her from her chair with surprising strength, and Arya finds herself tumbling into her sister, against the softness of her robe and her skin and her bright, bright hair.

“I was so lonely,” Sansa says, her fingers resting lightly over the pulse in Arya's wrist. “I was alone for so long, even when I was surrounded by others."

“So was I,” Jon says, for once not lost in the flames but watching them both intently, running a hand through the fire of Sansa's hair, and there's both a bitter burn in the back of Arya's throat and a fluttering in her belly.

“We were all alone,” she says, trying to swallow down both feelings, “and all someone else.” They don't know about the Faceless Men, about Arya being no one, not as she knows about Jon and Sansa, the Lord Commander and Alayne Stone, but they must understand anyhow, for they don't press her.

Sansa takes a deep breath; Arya can feel it against her own ribs, where they're pressed together, can see the rise and fall of Sansa's breasts at the edge of her robe. “I know how it is between you now,” Sansa begins, slowly and evenly, like a perfect lady. “Please don't think me foolish or naive. I have not had the luxury of being either for a very long time now.” Her gaze shifts between them, and the flutters in Arya's belly increase as Sansa's hand tightens around her wrist. “And please, don't shut me out. Don't leave me alone again. There isn't anyone in all the Seven Kingdoms I can truly trust, no one but you two.”

Jon's eyes are on her now, and for a second Arya feels it again, the flash of fur and snow, Nymeria and Ghost lying curled together at the foot of the heart tree, the ground empty and cold around them where the others should be. “Father once told me that the lone wolf will die, but the pack survives,” she says, and Jon must take her meaning and the permission in it, for he slides from his chair down into the bed of Sansa's furs to join them. When he takes Sansa's face between his hands and strokes the hair back from her cheek before kissing her, Arya feels the burning in her throat return and intensify, before Sansa's fingers begin traveling up the inside of her arm, stroking the skin there and sliding under the edge of her sleeve to touch the soft, sensitive spot at the crook of her elbow, making Arya's breath catch in her throat, marveling at how different her sister's delicate, soft hands feel compared to Jon's or her own, both long hardened with calluses and rough with scrapes.

When Sansa breaks away from Jon's mouth, she's flushed, her lips red and swollen in the firelight. “Kiss her,” she commands, giving Jon a gentle push in Arya's direction, and there's an edge of authority in her voice that sends a thrill down through Arya's belly, straight to her cunt, even before Jon's lips meet hers, the easy, familiar rhythm of their kissing seeming somehow new, with her sister's eyes on them. Even distracted by Jon's mouth, Arya doesn't miss the sound of rustling cloth, nor the movement of the air around her, so she's prepared when she feels Sansa's fingers pulling at the ties of her shirt, undoing the lacing so the neck falls open; still, she's unprepared for the tentative brush of those fingers across her breast, making her nipples grow peaked, and she gasps, pulling away from Jon just far enough for Sansa to pull the shirt over her head.

“I did not say you could stop,” Sansa reprimands, still using her Queen in the North voice, and Arya can't resist pointing out the obvious.

“You would have had a difficult time removing my shirt if I hadn't.” Arya barely notices Sansa's resulting smirk, being distracted by her nudity, Sansa's skin a beautiful pearly white, dotted with freckles barely visible in the shifting light.

“That may be,” Sansa says primly, sounding far too much like her old self now, “but you still can't learn to do as you're told.”

Jon makes a frustrated noise that sounds a great deal like a growl to Arya's ears. “Will you both please shut up?”

“Make her.” Sansa moves behind him, and for a moment Arya feels the sting of disappointment, her breasts aching now for more attention, before Jon cups her cheek and returns his mouth to hers, dropping his free hand to toy with her nipples.

It's only a moment before he groans into her mouth, and although it's difficult to see from her position, Arya has a theory, and confirms it by sliding her hand along his thigh until it meets with Sansa's fingers, wrapped firmly around his cock. His hand stills for a moment at her breast as her fingers join Sansa's, and Arya takes the opportunity to pull away and bend down, replacing her fingers with her mouth around the head of his cock.

His mouth free, Jon groans more loudly this time, and Arya hears Sansa laugh, feels a finger stroking her cheek as she swirls her tongue around him.

It isn't long before Sansa's slim fingers dig into her shoulders, pushing her upright. “I want to watch you fuck her,” Sansa whispers against Jon's ear, and even as she's shoving her breeches down, wet and aching for it, for a moment rage burns hot through her, that somewhere her sweet, proper sister had had to learn to say such things, and with such authority.

“I would kill Littlefinger, if he were still alive,” she grits out as Jon lowers himself over her, his cock probing at her cunt, stiff and hard as she's ever felt it.

“You would have to beat me to it,” he says, and pushes fully into her with one thrust, making her eyes fly open to see Sansa hovering over them, her eyes bright, high color staining her cheekbones.

“I beat you both to it,” she says simply, admitting what Arya has suspected but not truly known. “But I love you both for wanting to, nonetheless.” Sansa bends then to kiss her, her mouth smaller and softer than Jon's, but her kisses just as fierce and just as right, and instead of guilt, all Arya can think of is how it is the first time she can remember Sansa saying those words to her in all sincerity for over a decade.

She comes apart not long after, with Sansa's hand playing at her breast and one of Jon's tucked between them, rubbing her and making her gasp for air as she forgets, for one perfect moment, even how to breathe. When she comes back to herself, Jon has stilled, though he remains hard within her, and she shudders at the sensation of fullness.

“Sansa?” he asks, his voice strained; Arya knows from experience both the control he has over himself, and how difficult it can be to maintain.

Though she opens her mouth, Sansa says nothing, turning to Arya with a trace of panic on her face. “Arya?”

Whether her sister is asking for permission or reassurance, Arya isn't certain; that Sansa should ask her for either would be amusing at any other time.

“Everything is fine, Sansa,” she says, easing herself out from under Jon and giving him a nudge, getting him to lie on his back, his cock shining in the firelight, still wet and sticky from her.

Sansa seems to need no further urging, for she takes a deep breath and positions herself over Jon, letting him guide her with one hand at her hip and another traveling between her legs, his fingers disappearing up inside her. Sansa makes more noise than Arya, breathy little cries and moans as his fingers slide in and out of her cunt, and it's only a moment before she moans, “Please, Jon, _now_ ,” and sinks down onto his cock.

Arya takes this all in, but she's also distracted once more; Sansa's back is to her now, and the network of scars that cross her pale skin are entirely new to Arya. She knows how her sister came by them, for while Sansa has been shy of speaking of Baelish in any detail, she has spoken often enough of Joffrey and his court; still, this is the first time Arya has seen the evidence with her own eyes, and rage flares in her again, cold now as the North.

Rising, she presses herself up against Sansa's back, holding her sister with one arm and bracing them against Jon's chest with the other, her hand over Sansa's hand over the scars marking Jon's own skin, too close to his heart.

“I would have killed Joffrey too for you,” she says softly, against Sansa's ear, and her sister's breathing quickens. “Joffrey, and Cersei, all the members of his Kingsguard.”

Sansa's pace grows against Jon grows faster, her gasping turned to moans, and Arya meets Jon's eyes and slides her hand down to Sansa's hip, wrapping her fingers over his where he holds her steady.

“I'd kill Varys too, and Pycelle, and Tywin Lannister, everyone who just stood and watched. I'd kill everyone in the world who ever hurt you, Sansa.”

Sansa cries out then, wordless and lost, and shudders before collapsing back against Arya, letting her sister hold her up until Jon spills himself inside her a moment later.

The wolves howl outside as they manage, somehow, to settle themselves together before the fire, one against another, skin against skin.

“The pack survives,” Sansa says dreamily, nestled between them.

“Yes. We will,” Arya says, she who had once been no one, and finally now, lying here sharing in the warmth of the only people left to her in the world, Winterfell is home again.

_I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, sister of Lady Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North. I have a direwolf called Nymeria, and a lover and cousin named Jon Snow. And we will all survive._


End file.
